ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 16: The New Pact of the Islands
POV: Lord Rodrik Harlaw
Year: 289 AC
"The Reader." That is the ridiculous, reductive nickname my half-witted countrymen, with hands calloused only by the haft of an axe, chose to baptize me with. In the Iron Islands, where a man's worth is measured by the liters of blood he spills or the salt wives he drags to his bed, knowing how to decipher symbols carved onto dead sheepskin is viewed almost as a weakness. An eccentricity of a man who preferred the rustle of pages to the clamor of steel.
However, that very reputation granted me something invaluable. One of the few genuinely profitable aspects of our barbaric culture of reaving and plundering is that the Ironborn take absolutely everything they lay their eyes on during continental incursions. They steal golden chalices they barely know how to use, tapestries they leave to rot in the damp corners of their halls, and, occasionally, crates full of scrolls and ancient tomes whose true value they utterly ignore. What doesn't serve to light their cookfires inevitably ends up piled in my quarters at Ten Towers. What remains for me is the pure, distilled knowledge of centuries.
My private collection boasts books so rare that I dare say perhaps only the Great Library of Winterfell, the deepest archives of the Castle Black, or some secret vault locked away by the grey rats of the Citadel in Oldtown possess anything like them. And it was precisely by devouring these time-forgotten volumes that I learned to respect what the rest of Westeros considered mere nursery tales. I knew the real terror of the magic of the First Men. I knew the legends of the Kings of Winter of old—shadowy figures who shaped ice and commanded beasts with a mere thought.
But what my eyes witnessed over the last few days proved that those ancient books were vastly outdated. The version of magic the Kingdom of the North displays now is not just an echo of the past; it is something enhanced, transcendent, and absolutely devastating.
Because of this, when I spotted the immense grey wolf banners approaching my ports from the window of my temporary quarters, a chill that had nothing to do with the sea breeze ran down my spine. I knew that for my people, resistance would mean only one thing: total destruction and a death devoid of honor. Begging for your life is only useless if it doesn't work. And, fortunately for House Harlaw, it worked.
Now, I find myself walking with slow, measured steps, preparing for a crucial audience with the Iron Throne and the lords of the continent. The fate of the Iron Islands is about to be sealed, now that the once-proud House Greyjoy is nothing more than a collection of macabre statues. Balon and his lineage have become pieces of eternal ice, frozen alive inside their own seven-times-cursed castle. Pyke has transformed into a frozen mausoleum in the middle of the autumn sea, a grotesque work of art sculpted by the fury of the North.
And the most terrifying part of this entire campaign? The North concluded the war with exactly zero casualties. Not a single runic soldier fell. Not a single drop of northern blood baptized the waters of the Iron Islands. Against ultra-fast magical ships protected by translucent shields that repelled our flaming arrows, and colossal cannons that fired stones engraved with runes of explosion and piercing, the defenses of the Ironborn melted like snow in the sun. It wasn't a war. It was a summary slaughter.
As I cross the heavy double doors and enter the imposing Hall of the Rock, I feel the weight of an almost suffocating atmosphere. Casterly Rock is a fortress carved out of the mountain itself, a monument to the arrogance and wealth of the Lannisters, but today the gold of the West seems dull against the political tension filling the air.
Up ahead, at the center of attention, sits Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms. Well, the title says "Seven Kingdoms," but it seems the people of the South have deliberately chosen to forget to change the geographical count, completely ignoring the obvious fact that the North now operates in a completely isolated, sovereign royal sphere. The Demon of the Trident appears deeply irritated. He snorts, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and drums his heavy knuckles against the oak table. I imagine the war wasn't long enough to placate his bloodlust. Robert wanted glory; he wanted to crush skulls with his warhammer in a battle song that lasted months, but the lightning intervention of the Winter Throne robbed him of his climax.
From what I can piece together from whispered conversations and the debates echoing off the stone walls, the southern lords are discussing whether they will follow the counsel of the young King, Arawyn Stark. The North's plan is simple, pragmatic, and surgical: turn us, the Harlaws—the only Ironborn who possess anything functional inside our heads—into the new Overlords of the Iron Islands. It is the only viable alternative to deal with the idiotic culture of the Old Way, a mentality of reaving and raping that I myself agree should have ended centuries ago.
The idea, in reality, has already been practically accepted by all the great lords present. Lord Tywin Lannister, sitting like a statue of gold and stone beside the king, watches everything with his pale, calculating eyes. Tywin fears the magic of the North with every fiber of his being, though he would never admit it aloud. He knows that the gold of Lannisport cannot buy protection against a man who can freeze the ocean. Therefore, supporting the appointment of the Harlaws and maintaining stability in the Sunset Sea is the best possible scenario for the West.
Honestly, I feel like I am here merely as a political ornament. What is truly dragging the session out is the monumental effort Jon Arryn is making to calm Robert, whose moods swing between frustrated fury and monumental boredom. It was a stroke of luck that the Lord Hand sent the king to Great Wyk days ago, allowing him to bloody his warhammer on a few minor rebels of House Goodbrother. If Robert hadn't had that small outlet for his violence, he probably wouldn't have given up on turning our entire archipelago into a generalized bloodbath.
Jon Arryn, with the exhausted expression of a man carrying an entire kingdom on his back, sighs deeply. As if finally giving up on focusing solely on dry peace treaties, the old Hand shifts tactics and begins speaking about the grand tournament to celebrate the victory. The mention of jousts, feasts, plenteous wine, and roasted meat works like magic on the simple mind of the Stag King. Robert instantly forgets the idea of smashing smallfolk heads in the Iron Islands and lets out a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with the promise of debauchery and excess.
The Lord Hand, seizing upon the king's sudden calm, turns in my direction. His voice echoes through the hall with the tired authority of an aging bureaucrat:
— And what of your niece, Lord Harlaw? The young Asha Greyjoy. The Iron Throne demands to know your concrete plans for the last direct lineage of Pyke.
I adjust my posture, keeping my tone calm and devoid of any ambition that might alarm the southerners.
— I have no extravagant plans for my niece, Lord Arryn — I reply, receiving a silent nod of approval from Ned Stark himself, who observes the scene from a distance. — Asha is young and impetuous, but she recognizes the new reality. I intend to marry her to someone of my own family, a Harlaw of trustworthy lineage, to bind the land claims and ensure that the Greyjoy blood remains under strict vigilance at Ten Towers. The Old Way died with Balon.
The old lord of the Arryn dynasty perfectly understands the political subtext of stabilization and ends the matter with a firm nod of his head. I strategically retreat to a more distant spot in the hall, leaning against a stone pillar to watch the rest of the discussion regarding the upcoming festivities.
It is then that the atmosphere of the hall shifts drastically. The temperature drops by several noticeable degrees the moment the King of the North decides to speak.
Arawyn Stark. He is only fifteen years old, a realization that defies logic when one looks at his figure. Due to his transcendental magical heritage, the youth possesses a monstrously powerful physique, surpassing most grown southern knights in both height and breadth. He is a single step—or one idiotic remark from Mace Tyrell, who keeps babbling about the Reach's provisions—away from losing his patience and freezing all of us inside this hall.
Arawyn crosses his massive arms over his chest, where the runes of his armor gleam discreetly with a cold, bluish light.
— I have no time to waste on futile nonsense like a southern tournament — the young King says, his deep, resonant voice echoing effortlessly off the Rock's walls. — My armies have fulfilled their purpose. My fleets are ready. I shall return immediately to the North. There are matters of real importance demanding my presence at the Winter Throne.
However, Robert Baratheon is not a man who takes "no" easily, especially when it comes to celebrating a victory. The Stag King leans forward, slamming the table:
— Oh, come now, Stark! A war won without a single celebration isn't a war, it's a tedious chore! Where is that hot blood of yours, northmen?
Seeing the cold refusal in Arawyn's eyes, Robert shifts targets and brings Eddard Stark into the discussion, knowing the Supreme General of the North possesses a more diplomatic, though equally stern, nature. Ned Stark, wearing his heavy runic black steel helm-crown that gives him the aura of an implacable executioner, remains silent for a few moments. I see hesitation pass through his grey eyes.
Being "The Reader," I can decipher men just as well as books. I know Ned also desperately wants to return to the North. His double runic marriage, which unites Cersei Lannister and Ashara Dayne at Winterfell, recently bore fruit. Ned wishes to see his new "little wolf," the young Prince Rickon Stark, born this very year of 289 AC. The desire to go home and hold his son in his arms weighs just as heavily on the General as the steel of his armor.
Robert, noticing the hesitation of his old childhood friend, abruptly rises from his chair, letting out a thunderous laugh that reverberates off the vaulted ceiling. He raises his arms as if he had just conceived the most brilliant, revolutionary idea in the entire known world.
— I've got it! — roars the King of the South, slapping his generous belly. — You want to go home, Stark, and we want a tournament worthy of the songs! So let's make the best of both worlds... We shall hold the tournament in the North! Hahaha! I've always wanted to visit that bloody wall of ice and see the mythical lands where you pull these tricks from! The entire southern court will march to Winterfell!
The silence that follows is sepulchral. The southern lords turn pale at the prospect of marching into the biting cold, while Mace Tyrell gulps hard, already calculating the logistical cost of moving the royal retinue over thousands of leagues.
Arawyn Stark, clearly exhausted by the Stag King's childish persistence and wanting only to end this unproductive political bickering, lets out an audible sigh. He rests his hands—his runic gauntlets reinforced with sharp claws akin to a wolf's—upon his belt.
— So be it, then — the King of the North accepts, though his tone of voice is as cutting as a blade of eternal ice. He fixes his tempestuous eyes directly on Robert Baratheon, issuing a warning that makes the king's smile falter for a brief second. — But you had best mind your manners when you step into my lands, King Robert. The North does not tolerate the excesses and disrespect of the South. If you break our laws or insult our gods under my roof... know that only your head will return to King's Landing.
Without waiting for a reply or any courteous formality, the colossal King turns on his heel. His heavy strides echo through the hall as he departs, leaving a trail of tension and stupefied southern lords in his wake. As he passes me, he does not slow his pace, making only a subtle tilt of his head. A silent command.
I hasten to follow the King of the North, leaving behind the Hall of the Rock and the animated chatter of the continental lords, who are already beginning to plan their fur garments for the long journey.
I follow Arawyn's long strides through the stone corridors until we reach an isolated antechamber, far from the prying ears of King's Landing's spies. The door to the room is guarded by two elite northern warriors. They wear that fearsome black runic armor, a metal so dark and matte that it seems to absorb what little light the torches offer. If I could not see a tiny fraction of their stern faces through the slits of their helms, my reader's mind could easily imagine they were merely hollow magical constructs—sets of living armor moved by pure sorcery.
The King enters and takes a seat in a high-backed chair, leaning his massive physique toward me.
— Now you are the Overlord of the Iron Islands, Lord Harlaw — he says, direct and without preamble. — The Iron Throne believes you answer to King's Landing, but we both know the truth. I expect you to keep the idiots of those islands in line. I will tolerate no new rebellions, no new reaving, or any mention of the Old Way.
I do not hesitate. I know exactly before whom I stand. I bend my body, touching one knee to the cold floor with the utmost respect I can muster.
— Yes, my King — I reply, keeping my voice firm and resolute. — The Iron Islands will strictly follow every command issued by the Winter Throne. House Harlaw guarantees the submission of the archipelago.
Yes, the Islands now officially bowed to the Winter Throne. It was a secret arrangement, hidden from the southern fools, but sealed tightly within the clauses of the contract finalized in the previous chapter. Our destiny now belonged to the wolf, not the stag.
The young King remains silent for a long time, merely evaluating me with his piercing gaze. I feel cold sweat trickle down my neck under the scrutiny of this youth who possesses the power of an old god. Finally, the tension subtly eases as he speaks again:
— I know that governing men raised by the sea based on reason and books is a difficult task, Lord Harlaw. Those idiots only understand the language of force and naval power. Therefore, I shall grant you aid to consolidate your new position.
Arawyn raises a gloved hand and points to the corner of the room.
— I am granting you a warship of northern manufacture. A legitimate runic vessel, equipped with our reinforced hulls and magical propulsion engines. With it, you will have the speed necessary to patrol the Sunset Sea and crush any dissenters before they can even hoist a reaving sail. Use it to keep the idiots in line.
My eyes widen slightly. A northern ship. The secret of the impossible speed and the shields that decimated the Greyjoy fleet was being, in part, placed into my hands. But the King was not finished yet. He points to a side table of dark wood.
— And that is yours as well.
I step closer and behold a gleaming breastplate. It is a superb piece of craftsmanship, forged from an unknown silvery metal that emits an almost invisible cold mist. I do not even need to ask to know it is deeply enchanted with the protection runes of winter. It is armor that would likely repel axe blows as if they were mere twigs.
— I expect to receive only news of peace and prosperity from Ten Towers, my lord — Arawyn concludes, leaning back in his chair, his gaze ice-cold.
I merely bow one last time, expressing my silent gratitude. He makes a dismissive wave of his hand, indicating I may leave, and I immediately withdraw from the room, feeling the warm air of the corridor fill my lungs once more.
Hours later, I find myself at the prow of my flagship, leaving the ports of the West behind as we voyage back to the Iron Islands. The weight of the runic armor I received as a gift rests securely in a strongbox within my quarters, and the documents granting me command of the northern vessel are tucked away alongside my most precious books.
Even after all the humiliation of defeat and the extinction of House Greyjoy, I am forced to admit to myself that the Iron Islands came out ahead in this war. Well... perhaps the term "ahead" does not apply to the island of Blacktyde.
I recall with a shiver the report I received regarding the route the northern royal fleet took during the invasion. The King of the North passed through the island of Blacktyde before launching his direct assault on Pyke. He did this for some mysterious reason that my logical, reader's mind struggles to fully comprehend. Analyzing the nautical chart, that path was literally the longest possible route, nearly circumnavigating half the archipelago just to reach the primary objective. In the end, I arrived at the only logical conclusion: Arawyn Stark did it out of pure caprice. He sailed all the way there just to deliver an initial demonstration of absolute destruction, leaving a trail of runic terror to serve as a warning to all the other island houses. A tactic of shock and awe executed with the typical coldness of a Stark.
Looking back across the choppy waters of the sea, I can still see the preparations and the immense excitement of the journey north gripping the continental lords. The southern ships are being laden with provisions, and the knights chatter happily about the glories they hope to achieve at the Winterfell tournament. They are like children marching willingly into the jaws of a famished wolf, completely oblivious to the fact that they are about to enter a kingdom of real magic and living gods. Little do they know that Queen Catelyn Baratheon and the entire royal retinue are about to step into a territory where the authority of the Southern Iron Throne is worth no more than the twig one uses to scrape mud from one's boots.
I turn my back on the southern fleet and return to the safe confinement of my cabin. After all, the war is over for me, but the real work is just beginning. I have an entire archipelago full of proud idiots to govern, and I will need every ounce of wisdom contained within my books to guide our people under the cold shadow of the Winter Throne.
I look at the map of the Iron Islands, now under the Harlaw banner. A sudden, deeply desperate thought crosses my mind as the ship cuts through the dark waves.
Is my son ready to rule yet? Gods, I hope so. I haven't even arrived, and I already want to pass the government over to him. Let him inherit these glorious idiots and the eternal winter the North has brought to our waters.